John Henry Smith eBook

And then we met Wallace and Miss Lawrence, her arm
drawn through his, her face lifted toward his, and
her tongue going when she was not laughing. They
were “walking out” a dance, and evidently
enjoying it.

Mr. Harding had the time of his life. He danced
with stout farm wives, slender village maidens, and
executed a clog dance which made the barn shudder
on its foundations. He led the singing, told stories
to groups of farmers who shouted with laughter, and
refused to go home until Mrs. Harding took him by
the arm and fairly dragged him away.

I walked home with Miss Harding.

[Illustration: “Mr. Harding ... executed
a clog dance”]

ENTRY NO. XII

THE ST. ANDREWS SWING

A week has passed since I made the last entry in this
diary, and a number of peculiar things have happened.

My brokers have brought an additional 10,000 shares
of N.O. & G., which brings my speculative holdings
to a total of 25,000 shares. They acquired the
last block at an average price of 65, and the market
closed to-night at 63. If I were to settle at
this figure I would be loser to the amount of $150,000,
not including the $23,000 lost on the first two thousand
shares purchased, on which I have taken my losses.
Counting commissions and interest I am about $175,000
to the bad, but am not in the least worried.

My brokers are now placing their orders through houses
in other cities, and I am certain the extent of my
operations is a secret beyond the slightest question.

The qualifying round for the “Harding Trophy”
brought out the largest field of players in the history
of our club competitions. Of course most of those
who started declared that they had no expectation of
winning, or even of qualifying in the first sixteen.
For instance, there was Peabody, whose best medal
score is 112.

“Are you going to play for that bronze gent?”
demanded Chilvers, as Peabody came to the first tee.

“Thought I might just as well enter,”
said Peabody. “Of course I know I haven’t
a chance in the world to win.”

“You never can tell,” said Chilvers, his
face solemn as an owl. Chilvers is a merciless
“kidder.”

“That’s right,” admitted Peabody.

“If you play the way I saw you doing the other
day, there’s not a man in the club has anything
on you,” asserted Chilvers, winking at me.

“Stranger things have happened,” declared
Peabody, his face illuminated by a hopeful grin.
“I made the last hole yesterday in five, and
that is as good as Carter or Smith have done it in
this year.”

Now, as a matter of fact, there was not one chance
in five hundred that Peabody would qualify, and he
didn’t, but that did not prevent his starting
out with a hope and a sort of a faith that by some
bewildering combination of circumstances he would
qualify, and later on bowl over all of his competitors
and carry off the prize with the sweeter honours of
victory.